Last Me For A While
by I Was Here Moments Ago
Summary: When Sherlock needs help disappearing, he turns to his next door neighbour, Mr Remus Lupin. Reichenbach. Lost Years!Remus, Remus/Sirius may be mentioned.
1. Chapter 1

He'd been living there for three years when Holmes came to him. It was late at night, naturally. The man never seemed to sleep and he saw through everyone; Remus knew he saw his insomnia, his loneliness, his entire fucking life with a single glance, but what he hadn't counted on was just how much the consulting detective had seen. What surprised him more than anything else was the fact he was coming to him for _help_.

"Lupin," he'd said curtly, inviting himself inside. Remus would have objected if he'd been given the chance to, but the man had already seated himself in Remus's favourite chair and had begun to speak. "I believe you can assist me with something."

Remus closed the door behind him and chose the chair opposite Holmes. He seemed agitated. Almost nervous, but trying to hide it. "Go on," Remus prompted, perplexed.

"I believe you know who I am, what I do. I observe, and from what I observe, I deduce. I eliminate the impossible and take what remains to be the truth," he spoke quickly and confidently. He leaned forward in his chair. "So tell me, _Mr _Lupin, why, when the impossible has been removed, am I left with _nothing_ when it comes to you?"

Remus watched him for a moment, watched the unsolved mystery bring alive those cold eyes and for a second was reminded of someone else. A different time. He stood up. "Perhaps you ought to open your mind to the possibility that reality is subjective. Tea?" It was risky, he knew. The man was a muggle and the statute of secrecy was to be upheld, but he would be very surprised if Holmes hadn't already figured most of it out for himself. And, in any case, there were memory charms to fix any damage the truth would cause.

But Sherlock was off again, speaking more and more quickly. "- you work in a bookshop, then, obvious. Your nose has been broken numerous - four - times, and expertly fixed but you don't get scars like that in street fights. They're of varying ages, they didn't come from one occasion, you've acquired them over time, the newest of which is around a month old. You've lived here for three years, alone aside from the rare one night stand and -"

Remus set the tea down on the coffee table and sat back down. "That's all very good," he interrupted mildly. He knew from experience that if you didn't stop someone before they got properly started then you'd end up knee deep in bubotuber pus and a four hour detention. "But what have you _concluded_?"

Sherlock grinned. It was a terrifying thing, Remus decided. Not something he'd like to see again. "Who's Sirius Black?"

He flinched. He didn't know why, he was used to hearing the name after all these years. It had been all over the papers and it was common knowledge they'd been friends at school. Whenever he bumped into anyone in the wizarding world there was a chance he'd be mentioned. He just wasn't expecting it from his _muggle neighbour_. "An old friend," he said levelly. "Do tell me how you've come to know his name."

"You lived in his flat until December 1981," Holmes said dismissively. "Not difficult to find out, especially when one's brother works for the government. Where is he now?"

Remus picked his teacup up, taking a deep breath. "I rather thought you said you came here under the impression that I could assist you in some way."

Sherlock paused. Remus got the distinct feeling that it wasn't through a lack of things to say, and was rather the detective attempting to detect... _Something_. He felt awfully exposed. "You've seen war," he murmured to himself, "but you're not a soldier. You disappear the same time each month, every full moon. There are no records of where you went to school and nor are there records of what has come of the man you lived with for three years. You've lost, that much is obvious by the way you hold yourself, by the lack of company you keep." He hesitated, and Remus saw something there he doubted many had seen. Confusion. "Tell me what you meant about reality being subjective."

Remus raised his eyebrows and took a long sip of tea. "Why?"

"Because you're a lonely man and I'm a desperate one."

It was as close to a _please _as Remus imagined he'd get. "I can't tell you more than is necessary. There are laws to upkeep, you understand. Tell me what you need and I'll tell you what I can do."

Sherlock picked up his own mug but didn't take a drink. Instead, he sat back in his chair, surveyed Remus for a moment, and said, "I need to die."


	2. Chapter 2

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* * *

Mr Moriarty was a dangerous man, or so Remus had been told. Remus had seen his fair share of dangerous men over the last few years, one in particular more intimately than he would have liked, in retrospect, and he'd come to learn a few common denominators.

Greed was the most obvious one, and selfishness. Voldemort, Moriarty - they did things because they wanted something, and they wanted it now. They took it by force because they couldn't earn it or because what they had earned wasn't enough for them. They betrayed those who trusted them to achieve their ends. They'd sell their best friend's soul to the devil if it would keep him in his favour.

An inflated sense of self worth seemed to be another one, but Remus supposed that that came with the selfishness in a way. They deserved power, they deserved to stand above lesser beings and rule them because they could have done nothing, could have stayed in bed and taken the day off, but instead they've chosen to grace the world with their presence and the planet should be grateful because _they've seen it's wrong. _They've seen a flaw in the world that countless other men have seen - they've seen injustice, and by giving the world one leader, one person to look to, consistency and therefore equality can be achieved. But they're the ones who _miss the point_. They miss the fact that life will never be fair and injustice can never be vanquished so why not look at the world in all it's diversity and try to find some beauty in it instead of burning it to the ground?

And then there's the pain. Remus had never met James Moriarty and he had never conversed at length with Lord Voldemort, but he had known another. He'd seen first hand the damage pain could make a man do. Someone who'd been a disappointment, who'd been neglected and estranged and disowned and whose own determination had been no match for the blood running through his veins so he sought comfort in making others hurt as he had. He supposed he should have seen it sooner. He _had _led a man to a werewolf and remorse could be faked.

_Not his. Not then. _

Evidently his instinct was mistaken. Good men didn't kill their best friends and no one turned overnight.

From what he'd gathered, after asking Sherlock to slow down and explain himself properly (which had earned him a glare stony enough to make a basilisk proud), Moriarty was attempting and for the most part succeeding in destroying the detective's life, melodramatic as it sounded. Colleagues and friends had been turned against him and the detective told Remus he had reason to believe the final attempt would be one on his life.

"He doesn't just want to kill me, he wants to take my life away. Everything I am, everything I've worked for. My work will be discredited and what better proof is there that I'm a sham than my suicide once I've been exposed? He can't keep me alive, can't let me work my way out, so I have to die, and it won't be murder because it will raise suspicion. It's how he'll force me to do it that I have to manipulate so you can help me. I have to do it myself; the police aren't _entirely _stupid, they - or at least _some _of them - will know if it's been staged. And Moriarty will _want _me to do it myself. Now, the question isn't how will he force me to kill myself, it's what does he think I would be willing to die for? There's no question about it. He's sentimental, he's shown me that already by taking John and strapping him to explosives, by using my brother to get to me, by taking my work away from me. He'll use _people_. John, Lestrade, Mrs Hudson. My brother, if he can get to him or if he believes I still care enough. He'll threaten my friends so I'm forced to do it."

Remus had been listening intently, grateful in a way. He tried not to think about it, told himself it was pointless, but over the last few hours he'd slowly come to realise just how lonely he had _been. _"And how will you manipulate him?"

"Exactly," Sherlock muttered. "What _can _you do?"

"What you need me to do. I'll find a way. I've been in a few... _predicaments_ myself over the years and have become rather accustomed to finding ways out of them."

Holmes was staring again and Remus could practically _see _his mind working, but it only lasted a moment before he looked away. Remus was unimportant. "Documents will need to be forged. Molly must be informed, no one else can do it. Which means I'll need to see her at the morgue. There's as good a place as any. Not here, he'll be more careful here, he'll believe me to know it too well..." Sherlock drew in a sharp breath, apparently done with talking to himself and looked up. "How would you suggest one killed oneself at a morgue? St Bart's hospital, to be precise."

Remus raised his eyebrows, desperately wishing he'd stocked up on teabags. It was going to be a late night and he was running low. "I suppose there's always hanging."

Sherlock ignored him, looking, apparently, straight through him. He got up to get himself another mug of tea, not interested in watching him work it out. The kettle had just boiled when he heard a bark of laughter so loud it almost had him spilling hot water all over himself.

"Of course, of course. Predictable, _sentimental_."

Remus had no idea how Doctor Watson stood it. "Feel like sharing?" he asked, sounding, he was glad to note, a great deal less irritated than he was.

"What has he been doing to me? He's been tearing me down, stripping away everything I've built up over the last few years and he'd think it so _fitting _for me to go that way, the perfect ending to his fairytale. He'll make me jump. He'll want me to literally fall from grace, as it were."

Remus nodded, slowly. If the detective had been truthful, and he had had no reason not to be, then it sounded plausible. "So you'll need a body and an escape route. Should be easy enough, as long as you keep an open mind and don't question my methods."

Sherlock had smiled then. A small, genuine nod of thanks which disappeared as quickly as it came. "So," he'd said, the warmth gone from his eyes, replaced with something sadder. "What's going to happen?"

* * *

Remus couldn't help feeling nervous as he looked up at Sherlock Holmes standing on the roof of St Bart's hospital, readying himself to jump. He ran the risk of being seen by John Watson from down here, but he needed a clear view and he supposed, in a way, he'd been John once. When your best friend is in danger you're not concerned with anyone else. You don't look away. Sometimes you stare so hard you miss what's going on in your peripheral vision. You miss the bigger picture. The clues which could save you.

The body had been transfigured. It had taken a great bloody deal of effort to transfigure something that small into something so big, and at one point he'd nearly given up and decided to experiment on the dead fox with the Polyjuice he'd used most of his last paycheck on, but that was for another purpose and he supposed the practice had been something to do.

He'd been told John would be delayed for a few seconds which would give Remus enough time to switch Sherlock for the transfigured fox. Muggles would be shielded from the swap by Sherlock's "homeless network" who, in his words, would ask no questions as long as they got paid.

Remus tore his eyes away from John and back to Sherlock. He'd have to be quick and he'd have to be precise, there would be time for sympathy later.

Sherlock didn't look away from John as he spread his arms out and began to fall.

"_Aresto momentum_," Remus muttered, glancing back at John as the bike set off to knock him down. One of his homeless network signaled Remus to tell him the landing had been a success and gave him the slight opening he needed to catch sight of Sherlock and switch him for the fox.

Remus said nothing as Sherlock watched John rush to where he believed his friend was lying dead, and remained silent as he took a tight hold of Sherlock's arm and apparated them back into Remus's flat.

"Are you alright?" he asked quietly. The man would have questions, Remus knew, and he was prepared to answer them. He wished he'd had somebody to question when _he'd _lost _his _best friends.

Sherlock nodded, however, still silent. He sunk into the chair and an eternity seemed to pass before he finally said, "What now?"

Remus reached into the cupboard and took down a flask. He handed it to Holmes. "This," he said, sitting down opposite him. "is Polyjuice Potion."


End file.
